Eight
There was a split second of chaos followed by mayhem.
In the moments between Stevens’s come-fuck-me smile and a burst of blood exploding across his cheek, Dante lost a decade of his life under a tidal wave of fear and confusion. Another shot rang out, slicing through Rook’s upper arm, and Dante dove across the distance between them, slamming the lanky man to the ground.
Bringing his gun up, Dante covered Stevens with his body, resting his hand across Stevens’s face to protect his eyes from flying glass and wood when another bullet broke through the boards nailed over the empty panes from the last shooting. Beneath him, Stevens moaned, twisting under Dante’s hips in a profane mimicry of sexual release.
The shots came sporadically, a single, then two booms, right after one another. Plywood splinters peppered the air, arcs of sharp, acrid darts thick enough to sting where they struck. Dante ducked, shielding his eyes by burying his face in Stevens’s thick hair. He could feel Rook’s frantic heartbeat pounding away, beating out an unsteady tattoo on Dante’s jaw.
It was over after one final boom. Then a silence settled down, breaking apart in a rush of noise as the sounds of loud voices and screams rippled over them. The scent of blood—Rook’s blood—was in the air, the smell of terror and metal too familiar for Dante’s liking, and he waited until he was certain the shooting was over before he lifted himself up to check on Stevens.
Dante did not like what he found.
They were both sticky with Stevens’s blood, trails of dark red pouring from a deep crease in his arm, and Rook seemed to be in shock, his long lashes fluttering madly as his pupils blew outward, turning his odd-colored eyes almost a demonic black. He mumbled something as Dante turned him over then fought any attempt Dante made to lift up Rook’s bloody shirtsleeve.
Sirens sounded nearby, drowning out the mewling noises Stevens was making. There were footsteps, pounding leather on cement, and the familiar chatter of cops working through the scene, calling out when areas were clear. The sound of a rolling metal door going up rattled behind Dante, and he gave a quick glance over his shoulder as a pair of cops crept around the doorway he’d just come through.
“You okay, Detective?” Another detective, female and looking young enough to make Dante feel old, swept the room with her eyes, gun held up at the ready to give Dante cover. “Are you hit?”
“No, civilian’s down. Need a wagon in here. Two GSW, one probably serious.” Dante rattled off the address. “Call it in. I’ll see what I can triage.”
Tugging the shirt made the wound bleed more, and a sliver of fabric slipped out of the hole when Dante finally was able to work the sleeve up Rook’s arm. A quick glance at the man’s cheek reassured Dante the arm wound was the one to worry about, but the lump forming on Stevens’s temple made him pause.
“Great, trying to protect you, and I bash your head in.” Dante tore at Rook’s thin T-shirt until he got a long strip he could tie around the bullet wound to stave off the bleeding. Rook’s eyes followed Dante’s face, but as far as he could tell, the injured man was drifting in and out of consciousness. “Hold on. I hear the ambulance coming. I’ll go with you when they take you.”
“’Toya.” Rook’s head lolled forward, sending his hair cascading down over his face. Strands caught in the blood splatter, smearing threads of red across the man’s pale skin. His hands clenched at his side, kneading the air like a cat. Then he reached up and grabbed Dante’s jacket in a surprisingly strong grip. “Hurts.”
“You’re not going to die, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just try to stay awake until the EMTs get here and they can get a look at you.” The lump on Rook’s forehead swelled up enough to form a ridge under his hair, and Dante frowned, not liking the man’s unfocused expression. The cotton scrap he’d fastened over Rook’s upper arm began to drip crimson, saturated by the leaking wound. “And they need to hurry the fuck up.”
“Shhhhh, trying to tell you something,” Rook muttered darkly. “Listen, fucker.”
Keeping one eye on the door, Dante leaned in. “What?”
“Next time you throw me down, there better be a damned bed under us, not the floor.” His voice was a soft whisper, and his body slackened against Dante’s arm, but Rook held on as he tried to focus on Dante’s face. “First time you fuck me, there’d better be warm sheets and a soft pillow under my ass. Forewarned, Montoya. Forewarned.”
“Here, wipe the blood off of your face.” Hank sidled up to Dante, holding out a damp towel. “Medics check you out? You didn’t get hit, did you?”
“Nah, blood’s his.” The towel was cold, a shock to his overheated skin, and the wet terry cloth felt good as he rubbed at his jaw. “I’m fine.”
Dante wished he could somehow do the same to his nerves. His innards churned into a knot, refusing to loosen even when the medics assured him Rook would be all right. The gunshot wounds were minor, and the bump on Rook’s head was more than likely a very mild concussion, nothing cataclysmic, and after a small whimpering confession on the woozy thief’s part, they’d discovered he couldn’t stand the sight of his own blood.
And there’d definitely been a lot of that.
Hollywood seemed determined to empty itself out into the street. The sidewalk became a partial carnival of uniforms and supposed witnesses, half a dozen stories being told all at once and with conflicting results. According to some of the people he’d overheard, the shooter had been either a tall black man with a red beanie or a slump-shouldered Latino driving a Buick. The forensics team fell on the front room like locusts, and as they buried themselves in discussions about telemetry and blood splatter, Dante realized it would be a very long time before Stevens got his shop back.
Hank nudged him gently. “They say where they’re taking him?”
“Yeah, they’re getting him over to St. Vincent’s. I gave them his grandfather’s contact information but told them I’d make the call. I left a message with the housekeeper. Archibald Martin is out with friends and doesn’t carry a phone on him. She’s going to call his driver.”
“Must be nice. I feel like I can’t even take a shit without the thing.”
“That’s something I could have lived without knowing.” Dante made a face. “I’m about done here. Want me to drop you off before—”
“Let me guess. You’ll be heading over to St. Vincent’s to hold Stevens’s hand,” Hank drawled. “Don’t give me that look. You were all ready to sing Celine Dion to the fucker from what I could see when I came in. All you needed was a damned iceberg and a diamond necklace.”
“Is that another gay crack?” Dante stopped wiping his face and glared at his partner. “’Cause it if was….”
“No, if it was a gay crack, I’d have said something about ruby slippers, but I couldn’t work it in.” He stepped aside to let a workman carrying plywood pass by. “It was about me finding you making goo-goo eyes at a guy you know is a piece of shit.”
“Not arguing about him being a piece of shit.” Frowning, Dante peered at his reflection in a squad car’s side mirror. “Just don’t think he murdered anyone.”
“Yeah, neither does the captain. I was coming to tell you he’d called when hell broke loose. Stevens’s been cut loose. DA’s dropping all charges on your boyfriend.” Hank shrugged as Dante turned in surprise. “Yeah, shocked the shit out of me too.”
Dante whistled low, shaking his head. “What happened? Stevens’s grandfather has that much pull?”
“While I don’t doubt that, no,” Hank replied. “Someone ran his plates for warrants. Standard procedure before they impound it to forensics. Your boy apparently caught the end of a yellow in Santa Monica twenty minutes after O’Rourke called time of death. Camera snap shows his entire face. So unless he’s got a twin brother we don’t know about, there’s no way he could have killed her.”
“And he definitely didn’t transport Anderson here. It was confirmed she died on-scene. What about the vics in the bin? Do they have anything else besides pieces and parts? We dragged him in on that because it looked connected.”
“Gore squad was focusing on Stevens’s SUV because it was a kill-and-carry, but nothing pinged on their machines. Doesn’t look like it was used for transport, so he’s clear of the Bert and Betty murders. Martin and the housekeeper gave him an out, but until we know when and where those two were killed, it’s still kind of shaky, but they’re not looking at him for it.”
“Change of game.” He grimaced, trying to look at the case without Stevens in the middle of it. “We’re back to square one. Only thing we had was Stevens. Might be all we have now. Shooting today confirmed it.”
“Yeah, unless he paid someone to fling bullets at him to make him look innocent, but if we start going down that route, might as well make some tin-foil hats and wait for aliens. Kind of grassy knoll shit there.”
“Too big of a risk, Camden. Stevens takes risks but not that kind. Up until a couple of days ago, he’d steered pretty clear of anything violent.” Dante frowned. “Might want to go through the old files I’ve got stashed. It’s been a while. Vince might have had something sketched out on Anderson. I was focused more on the break-ins. He caught the associates and connections.”
“Yeah, good place to start if Stevens can’t give us anything.” Hank nodded toward the building. “Why did he come here? What was he looking for? Do you know?”
“Didn’t get a chance to ask a lot of questions.” Dante made one last swipe at his face with the towel. “Shooter lit the place up, but from what I caught, lawyers told him he could come by. I think he wanted to see what was left of his shop.”
“Yeah, hard to tell what was from the rookies going crazy because they saw Chewbacca in the window and whoever is after Stevens.” Hank grinned at Dante’s confused look. “One of the babies in blue coughed up that he thought he saw a gun. Turns out it was that furry mannequin Stevens had by the counter. Guess in the dark and with lights flashing around, you could mistake a Wookie for a viable threat.”
“It’s a fucking seven-foot-tall hairy dude with a crossbow thing. How could you not know it wasn’t real?”
“Don’t look at me. I’m not the one who went Duck Hunt on Stevens’s ass.” Hank threw his hands up in mock surrender. “So, word of advice, once you go kiss Sleeping Beauty awake, see if you can get him to tell us anything about the weirdos someone stuck into the Goodwill box. Between the chopped-up bits and their brilliant use of acid on their fingertips, we can’t get a good ID on who those two actually are. Lab’s going after dental, but that’ll be a long time coming.”
“He kind of left me with the impression they were grifters. Definitely a vice game. We should see if Rackets got any papers on them. Might be something to chase down there.” Dante mulled over the possibilities. “His assistant’s got priors. Mostly soft cons and a supposed solicitation, but that went the way of Stevens’s convictions—wiped clean of everything but an honorable mention. Rook seems to be the only thing connecting Anderson and the pair we found in the back. I’d give my left nut to get a hold of this Canada woman. She’s got a lot of information we need.”
“Think Stevens told her to run?” Hank leaned against the squad car, his eyes roaming the crowd. “Wouldn’t be out of character for him to split, although he’s wedged in pretty tight here. She might not be.”
“I’ll ask him that too,” Dante offered. “So, you coming with me or asking one of the blues to drop you off at home, culero?”
“Nah, you go get on your white horse and gallop to the hospital. I’ll find my own way home. Just a bit of advice for you, don’t be surprised when your Prince Charming turns out to be a frog.” Hank tsked as Dante flipped him off. “Being honest here, Montoya. I don’t want to see you get hung up on a pretty face, then have your heart broken.”
“Don’t worry about me, Camden,” Dante reassured him. “I’m not looking to fall in love. And if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be with Rook Stevens.”
The air stung Rook’s lungs, biting through his chest to leave a searing icy burn down his torso. There were more burns, too many for him to keep track of, and he lay still, his eyes closed in an attempt to keep the warm darkness close. Unconscious was better than the frigidity waiting for him, and he grunted, fighting off the wakefulness threatening his sleep. Something went tight around his arm, and Rook shifted, uncomfortable at a chilly bite.
Then a much-too-familiar golden voice poured over him, chasing the chilly licks on his skin away with a sensual heat Rook longed to sink into.
“Come on, cuervo. Time to wake up. I can hear you thinking under there.”
“Don’t want to. You’ll arrest me for murder or something,” he grumbled back. “Just let me sleep.”
“Can’t do that. The hospital people will want their bed back at some point.” Montoya jostled him lightly. “And do you want your grandfather to find you like this? The old man will sell your kidneys or something if you’re not awake to catch him.”
“God, it’s like you know him. Trapdoor spiders hang posters of that man on their webs as inspiration.” Rook opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. The room was searing bright, digging into his eyes and gouging out what little sense he had left in his skull. Blinking, Rook made out the Hispanic detective looming over him. Smirking, he muttered, “Nice as you are to wake up to, if we’ve fucked, I don’t remember. Shit, I feel like I’ve been microwaved to death.”
“Yeah, you’ll be fine. You’re already complaining.” Montoya shook his head and pulled out of Rook’s view. “You were starting to swear at someone in your sleep. I figured it was time to pull you up out of it.”
As hospital rooms went, it was a nice one. There were comfortable armchairs and fine art on the walls, a private sanctuary Rook was certain his grandfather’s name had a hand in securing. For all he knew, the old man was somewhere nearby, pulling strings as Rook lay in a stupor, strung up like the puppet he was becoming. Still, it was better than most places he’d recently been, including the dull green cell he’d had courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.
But it was just another prison—although it certainly came with better eye candy than the vomiting heroin addict he had for company while Montoya and his partner tried to pin Dani’s death on him.
“What happened?” He tried sitting up, propping himself up on his hand, but his elbow folded in on itself, plopping him back into the bed. His memory fuzzed in and out. He recalled walking into Potter’s Field, then Montoya sneaking up on him, but the rest of it was caught behind a gray veil. “Shit, a bit dizzy here. Why am I in here?”
His arm ached, and his face seemed stiff on one side. Touching his cheek solved the question of why he couldn’t move his nose. A stretch of gauze and tape went from his jaw up to his cheekbone, and from what Rook could tell, Boris Karloff’s makeup artist had gotten a hold of him, wrapping him up tight with yards of bandages and more tape.
“You were shot.” Montoya skirted the bed again, reaching for a cup of ice chips. “Nothing serious. Crease on your cheek and a dimple on your arm. Went through the meat—”
“Went through the meat?” Rook felt the blood leave his face. “Like through my arm? Then what?”
“Then you fainted. Manfully. It was very manly. Medics thought you might have passed out from the pain. Or it could have been when you hit your head on the floor. They’ve checked to see if you’ve got a concussion, but other than a lump, nothing major. Just rattled your already shaky brain.” The detective jangled the cup at Rook. “Here, bend your head forward. I’ll tilt it up so you can get some in you. No food for a while.”
“Screw the… whatever the hell that is. Who the fuck shot me?” It wasn’t pretty, but Rook’s voice suddenly jumped a couple of octaves. A brief flicker of memory slithered around Rook’s brain, mostly the painful hit he took when Montoya took him down. “Wait a minute. I hit the floor because you tackled me. What happened to just screaming duck or something? Next time I’m under you, I better be fucking awake for it, Montoya.”
“Chances of that happening are none to never, Stevens. And I tackled you because someone was shooting at us. Well, you in particular. We don’t know who the shooter is. By the time the uniforms got around to the front, the place was chaos. Guy could have been standing right there in the crowd, watching the whole thing, but we’ll never know.” Montoya jiggled the ice again. “Get some of this in you. You’re dehydrated as it is, and IVs only do so much.”
Rook took the ice chips, slurping up a mouthful when Montoya angled the bottom of the cup. Chewing was difficult. The gauze and tape sculpture on the side of his face felt like he was a fossil being prepared for transport, and chewing only made things worse. Rook swallowed and shook his head when Montoya brought the cup back up.
“No, I’m good. Too fricking cold.” He shifted in the bed, then reached for the bandage on his cheek. “Stitches under here?”
“Butterflies, I think. What are you—?”
“This.” Rook tugged at the bandage, steeling himself for the eventual pain, then ripped it clean off his face. He got a quick thrill out of Montoya’s wince. “For my next trick, I’m yanking this needle out. Now who do I talk to so I can get out of this place?”
“You are going nowhere, Stevens. The doctors want you in here for observation. I’m hoping it’ll stick.” Montoya’s expression went unreadable, but his eyes were hot. “Would kind of be nice to know where you are for at least twelve hours. Can’t seem to keep you in jail long enough to question you, and now it looks like someone’s trying to kill you.”
“Yeah, it’s a laugh a minute around me.” Rook gestured to the stack of machines near him. “This doesn’t work for me. I want out. Or am I under arrest again? Still? Again? I’m not even sure what the hell is going on anymore.”
“What’s going on is your car was picked up on a traffic camera as the light was turning red about the time Dani Anderson was being killed. The timeline for you killing her doesn’t add up, so you’re free and clear.” The detective pulled a metal chair up, then sat down. “So you’re either the luckiest son of a bitch, or you can somehow drive from Santa Monica to Hollywood in thirty minutes.”
“Not at nine o’clock at night on a Saturday. Shit, I don’t think you’d be able to do that even after the apocalypse and all the roaches are left driving Dodge Darts.” He lay back, unsure about the lightness in his chest. Dani was still dead, and someone killed her in his shop; that much he knew. Relief was a great thing, but the hole in his arm told him he wasn’t out of the woods yet. “Fuck, then who killed her and the Betties? And why the hell shoot me?”
“Don’t know,” Montoya admitted. “And that diamond she had? They’re testing to see if it’s fake. One of the lab guys called shenanigans on it.”
“Yeah, usually more than half of them are. You’d be surprised how many fakes I got doing jobs—” Rook blinked. “Shit. What the hell do they have in that IV?”
He’d broken. A cup of ice chips, a set of hard broad shoulders, and a rolling hot accent and he’d broken. Montoya grinned at him, catching the bandage Rook flung away. Montoya’s sweet act and the lump on his head did him in. That or he was getting soft and lazy. He’d been so careful, denying everything and admitting nothing, refusing to give the cops even a whiff of maybe to latch onto. And he’d just handed Montoya a thread to hang a confession on if the detective chased it far enough down the rabbit hole.
“I know you’re a thief. That’s not a surprise. I might not have caught you at anything, but I’m not stupid, Stevens. You’re just slippery,” the detective informed him. “I just didn’t think you were a murderer. Hank and I… well, mostly me at first, but something was off from the beginning. I wanted it on you. I did. For all the shit you pulled in the past, but this one—this one isn’t on you. So while formal charges aren’t dropped yet, it looks like Camden and I are back at square one.”
“And the cops shooting at me? At the store?”
“That is under investigation. Call came in that there was a gunman. You were there, and someone saw… something.” Montoya had the grace to look abashed. “The first detective on the scene thinks it was one of your props. There’s a few issues. IA is going nuts with it.”
“Told you I didn’t kill her.” Rook scratched at his cheek, careful not to dislodge the butterfly bandages affixed to his skin. “Any of them. I just don’t know who did or why.”
“What can you tell me about the Betties? You said your assistant, Charlene, knew them, but she’s been hard to find.” Montoya rested his elbows on the edge of Rook’s bed. “Tell me where to go, Stevens. Who knew them? Who are they?”
Rook eyed the IV needle piercing his arm and nodded to the door. “The Betties? Shit, spring me out of here, Montoya, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Hell, most of it might even be the truth.”